“Then it must be true. Undoubtedly I played wrong notes, miladi.”
“Very careless of you, I’m sure.” Under the garish light of a neighbouring street-lamp her keen old eyes met his significantly. “Or—very imprudent, Davilof. You need the tact of the whole Diplomatic Service to deal with Magda. And you ought to know it.”
“True, miladi. But I was not designed for diplomacy, and a man can only use the weapons heaven has given him.”
“I wouldn’t have suggested heaven as invariably the source of your inspirations,” retorted Lady Arabella. And hopped into the car.
They arrived at the Imperial Theatre to find Mrs. Grey already seated in Lady Arabella’s box. Someone else was there, too—old Virginie, with her withered-apple cheeks and bright brown, bird-like eyes, still active and erect and very little altered from the Virginie of ten years before. Just as she had devoted herself to Diane, so now she devoted herself to Diane’s daughter, and no first performance of a new dance of the Wielitzska’s took place without Virginie’s presence somewhere in the house. To-night, Lady Arabella had invited her into her box and Virginie was a quivering bundle of excitement. She rose from her seat at the back of the box as the newcomers entered.
“Sit down, Virginie.” Lady Arabella nodded kindly to the Frenchwoman. “And pull your chair forward. You’ll see nothing back there, and there is plenty of room for us all.”
“Merci, madame. Madame est bien gentille.” Virginie’s voice was fervent with ecstatic gratitude as she resumed her seat and waited expectantly for Magda’s appearance.
Other dances, performed principally by lesser lights of the company and affording only a briefly tantalising glimpse of Magda herself, preceded the chief event of the evening. But at last the next item on the programme read as The Swan-Maiden (adapted from an Old Legend), and a tremour of excitement, a sudden hush of eager anticipation, rippled through the audience like wind over grass.
Slowly the heavy silken curtains drew to either side of the stage, revealing a sunlit glade. In the background glimmered the still waters of a lake, while at the foot of a tree, in an attitude of tranquil repose, lay the Swan-Maiden—Magda. One white, naked arm was curved behind her head, pillowing it, the other lay lightly across her body, palm upward, with the rosy-tipped fingers curled inwards a little, like a sleeping child’s. She looked infinitely young as she lay there, her slender, pliant limbs relaxed in untroubled slumber.
Lady Arabella, with Quarrington sitting next to her in the box, heard the quick intake of his breath as he leaned suddenly forward.